


Unpredicted

by ljs



Series: Political Disasters [2]
Category: Babylon (TV)
Genre: Established Relationship, F/M, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 11:42:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8531731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ljs/pseuds/ljs
Summary: The 2016 US Presidential Election hits Liz hard. Finn deals with her, and the nasty little realizations that come along too.Set after "Indissoluble."





	

As he tries to wake up, the first thing Finn hears is the emphatic voice of his… of Liz shouting "Fuck" very, very loudly.

She often greets the day with a hearty round of expletives, it's true. Now that they're not exactly (yes, Finn, exactly, don't lie) living together, he can expect at least three days a week to be greeted with a curse upon awakening. Sometimes it's a spot on her suit jacket the dry cleaners missed, sometimes it's an egregious stupidity spoken by a breakfast-television presenter, sometimes it's a banana gone bad, sometimes he's fucked up and she wants him to know about it. But this time –-

Sitting up amidst the sheets and blankets, rubbing at his truly horrific bedhead, he remembers. The US election. Results would be in. And even after the massive cockup perpetrated by the US domestic intelligence service, surely not that --

"Oh, fuck fuck fuck," he says under his breath, and grabs for his dressing gown. (It's a mark of his disturbance that he actually wears this un-fucking-believable item of clothing, gifted to him by Liz as part of God fucking knew what kink in her American brain.) 

When he emerges from the bedroom, it's unimaginably worse than he thought.

Liz is huddled, sobbing, on the sofa. Her tablet is beside her.

Cautiously he goes over and picks it up. Clicks a link. Stares in horror at the _Guardian_ headline.

Shit, shit, shit, unimaginably fucking worse.

"At the very least," she says, muffled. 

"Oh. Did I say that out loud?" he says, voice morning-hoarse. After he clears his throat, he considers his options -- while she goes back to crying.

He is not a natural comfort-giver, he knows. It's half culturally ingrained reserve and half his own self-installed internal protection system. It's wholly Not His Area. But when confronted with his… with this particular woman's tears, his duty is clear.

Gingerly he sits down next to her on the sofa. When she doesn't immediately turn around and pummel him – which is a real possibility – he ventures further and puts his arm around her.

It cannot be overstated how shocked he is when she turns, burrows into him, and sobs loudly into his shoulder.

Still – he ventures even further and kisses the top of her head. "God, I'm so sorry," he says huskily.

The slap she aims at his stomach is more like a pat. It's as if she's losing strength by the second. But her words are still clear. "Is that all you can say?" 

"It's a start. How 'bout 'I am so very _fucking_ sorry.'" And he is. 

"Better," she says, and starts crying harder.

She's been nervous about this election for a week. She'd got loads of campaign swag months ago from a college friend who worked at the headquarters in Brooklyn, but in the past few days her fondling of the "I'm with Her" mug had been practically a therapy-worthy act; she kept walking around with it even when it was empty. She'd also taken to wearing a new Nasty Woman t-shirt to bed, which he couldn't say he minded; in fact it seemed like an aphrodisiac for them both. But he, the man who had TMJ because of his addiction to chewing gum, can recognize compulsive behavior and the ritual invoking of all beneficient gods when he sees them.

So he figures she is owed a cry. But – "Easy, Liz. At this rate, you'll dehydrate yourself before work."

When she raises her head to glare at him, the look is basically two steps away from Feral She-Wolf. "I can't go into work today," she snarls.

"Jesus Christ," he says involuntarily. If she's avoiding work, then this is as bad as it gets.

"Got something to say about my work ethic, Finn-boy?" she says, and fucking hell it's like her canines have literally sharpened like a vampire's. He actually checks to make sure the sun is up. "It's not like you've ever fucking faltered, right? You remember Brexit day?"

"Fuck you," he says reflexively, because that wound is still raw, and then, "Shit. Sorry. I mean. I don't want to fight when you're upset."

She scoots back an incredulous half-inch. "You don't want to fight when I'm _upset_?" she says.

Right, considering their relationship, that sounds horrifically stupid. He regroups. He is a spinner, after all. "I am perfectly happy to fight with you when you're upset about Metwork or my forgetting to put the toilet seat down or your thoroughly ridiculous interpretation of the Star Trek reboot—"

"Do not _dare_ fuck with me about Uhura and Spock!" she hisses.

At another time he'd roll his eyes so hard he'd give himself a migraine, but not today. Instead he takes her hands and links their fingers. "You're hurting, Liz. I'm just trying to..."

"To do what?" she says, quieter.

"Take care of you." That is harder to say than even he expects – as if a layer of his armour has peeled away.

It's quiet in the flat for a long moment. He makes himself hold her gaze, even though he can't read her thoughts through the remnants of tears.

Then she sniffs hard. "Thank you. Since I'm now an exile from my home country, because I am not going back so long as that _orange pustule_ is in charge, I'm glad you're with me."

His heart stops. He'd not – but she couldn't have imagined she could – she's here, how could she even consider…not being here. With him.

"Nothing to say?" she says, and angrily dashes away a long streak of sadness on her cheek. 

"You were going back?" he says. His voice is much less assertive than he wants it to be.

"Thinking about it. She'd have needed good PR."

"Yes, right, there's a sad fucking lack of people who give perky little TED talks in the Americas."

"Fuck you," she says, and then winces – at what, he doesn't know.

"Liz," he says, and then stops, because he feels a little lost. So he kisses her, because even for high-powered public relations professionals, sometimes words aren't the answer.

She leaps on him like -- well, some feral she-wolf on her prey. Damn and fuck and shit it's hot, the way she rips open that fucking ridiculous dressing gown and sends her hands traveling down his chest. She's likely to keep going, but in an effort of will, he stops her. "What?" she says, muffled, still kissing him.

"My turn to take care of you," he says, and pushes her over onto her back.

She actually goes with it, letting the energy take her down, and he's left staring down at her. She looks like hell, eyes already bloodshot, skin blotchy, hair all-fucking-everywhere. She's the most precious thing he's ever seen, and he is lost, hers, utterly and completely. Oh fucking fucking fuck.

"Are you going to?" she says.

"Oh. Did I say that out loud?" he says, and manages a smirk even whilst he's processing this truly horrific realization. When she growls at him, his smirk becomes an honest smile. He's probably letting everything show, he thinks belatedly. Only one thing to do.

So he goes down, leaving on her Nasty Woman shirt but pushing it up for better access. She obligingly spreads her legs and makes an odd little gasp when he licks her open. "What?" he says, through a mouthful of her.

"Stubble," she says, and her hands come to his hair, her fingers tunnel in. "Hurts a little. Nice."

"I'll be careful," he says, and then uses his tongue to make her whimper.

His…Liz. His delight and his torment and his partner in a world gone mad. He silently vows he will take very good care of her indeed.

Not that he'll admit it, mind you. A man's got to have _some_ armour.


End file.
